4.5.18
I want my life to go back to normal, but I'm not sure that's possible now. Maybe I'm not meant to live a normal life, or maybe I need to create a new normal -- maybe this hell is the new normal. I just know that right now is bad, with glimpses of good that sneak out to poke me, to remind me that life isn't all that bad, but it also isn't all that good. It's more bad than good. Maybe that's the new normal and I'll just have to get used to the idea that happiness isn't for me, that it isn't a permanent state of being for me, that I don't deserve it like I used to think I would by now.
The truth is that's all I care about -- happiness.
I don't care about the money, or popularity, or having nice things, or a large house, or any of those things because happiness is all I want. Maybe I'd even sell what little is left of my soul for it. Maybe I already have.
There are so many "maybes," too many for my liking but there are few things I am certain of nowadays. Certainty left me when my life was tossed in the air and gravity abandoned me. I'm tired of floating through life, waiting anxiously for the next bad thing to throw me farther out into the atmosphere. My life has become a game of anxiety and sadness masqueraded by stress.
I'm sorry I mess up so often, more than I ever used to. I'm trying, but nobody cares about that anymore; nobody cares if you're trying if you're not making any progress or if you're not getting any better. If you're not doing better then what's the point? You may as well give up. I already have.
I'm not inspired. I struggle to write something that isn't simple or that hasn't be said before. Everything turns out the same and my self-doubt screams at me for my inadequacy. The hardest things to talk about used to be the easiest to write, but now my words have abandoned me and writing is a challenge I face. What previously was an outlet is now a competition and I'm constantly losing.
I'm sorry my feelings are a river with too many rapids. I should have learned by now to not drown myself in them, to wade in slowly. Right now I am learning to sit on the edge, too fearful to jump in and get cut on the severed edges of rocks awaiting me. I want some space for it to freeze over. I need to protect myself.
There are enough sad songs and 2 am talks, weaved with the unknown of whether I belong here or there, or here at all. There are nightly laughs, gathered around a dining hall table, picking at food too exotic for our palates, ice crushed between my teeth, a hand on what little is left of my collarbone. There are books on my shelf to be read, and conversations to have, and anxiety-inducing adventures to go on. There are sunsets to capture and fill my memory card, there are facts to be learned and new interests to be discovered. There is inspiration to be found in the most hidden corners. There is enough good to be rightfully acknowledged and enough sadness to drown my world out, but most importantly, there is just enough to keep me going.
The truth is that's all I care about -- happiness.
I don't care about the money, or popularity, or having nice things, or a large house, or any of those things because happiness is all I want. Maybe I'd even sell what little is left of my soul for it. Maybe I already have.
There are so many "maybes," too many for my liking but there are few things I am certain of nowadays. Certainty left me when my life was tossed in the air and gravity abandoned me. I'm tired of floating through life, waiting anxiously for the next bad thing to throw me farther out into the atmosphere. My life has become a game of anxiety and sadness masqueraded by stress.
I'm sorry I mess up so often, more than I ever used to. I'm trying, but nobody cares about that anymore; nobody cares if you're trying if you're not making any progress or if you're not getting any better. If you're not doing better then what's the point? You may as well give up. I already have.
I'm not inspired. I struggle to write something that isn't simple or that hasn't be said before. Everything turns out the same and my self-doubt screams at me for my inadequacy. The hardest things to talk about used to be the easiest to write, but now my words have abandoned me and writing is a challenge I face. What previously was an outlet is now a competition and I'm constantly losing.
I'm sorry my feelings are a river with too many rapids. I should have learned by now to not drown myself in them, to wade in slowly. Right now I am learning to sit on the edge, too fearful to jump in and get cut on the severed edges of rocks awaiting me. I want some space for it to freeze over. I need to protect myself.
There are enough sad songs and 2 am talks, weaved with the unknown of whether I belong here or there, or here at all. There are nightly laughs, gathered around a dining hall table, picking at food too exotic for our palates, ice crushed between my teeth, a hand on what little is left of my collarbone. There are books on my shelf to be read, and conversations to have, and anxiety-inducing adventures to go on. There are sunsets to capture and fill my memory card, there are facts to be learned and new interests to be discovered. There is inspiration to be found in the most hidden corners. There is enough good to be rightfully acknowledged and enough sadness to drown my world out, but most importantly, there is just enough to keep me going.
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